


Imperfect Refraction

by blueshadows



Series: On the Matter of Obedience [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Angst, Brainwashing, But I'm a terrible Person, Depression, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POV Third Person Limited, Rape, Slaves, Suicide Attempt, There Should be Comfort in This, This is probably a cry for help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-19 11:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10639251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueshadows/pseuds/blueshadows
Summary: Someone else was touching him.Master was watching him.Letting it happen.He felt wrong, dirty.In which his Master gifts him to anotherAN:  I highly recommend reading Perfect Obedience first





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS NOT A NICE FIC
> 
> Perfect Obedience (prequel) wasn't a nice fic either  
> BUT THIS IS EVEN WORSE AND NOT NICE AT ALL  
> also might be triggering, you have been warned
> 
> But seriously don't expect the warm fluffies because there's no warm fluffies to be had here
> 
> Also, if you're looking for smut, please refer to Perfect Obedience, because I can't say the sex here is smutty, like, at all. Because it isn't.

Whatever Master said was right.

That was the rule.

He lived to serve his Master, to be loved by his Master. Nothing else should’ve mattered.

Whatever Master said was right.

So why did he feel so terrible now, as his Master watched him being disrobed by another. Someone important, he knew. Surely his Master wouldn’t give him to anyone who wasn’t important. But those hands on him… they were not the cool touch of his Master.

It was someone else.

Someone else was touching him.

Master was watching him.

Letting it happen.

He felt wrong, dirty.

But… his Master had told him to obey them. To let them do as he pleased, for they had pleased his Master with good service.

Good service. Was this good service in the way he sought to serve his Master? 

His heart grew tight at the thought. No. Master was his. Just as he was Master’s.

Except he wasn’t just Master’s anymore, was he? Not when they were touching him. Not when Master was letting them.

A hand, too warm and thick to be that of Master’s perfect alabaster ones, pushes him onto his knees so that he’s kneeling. Rough hands tug his hair back, causing his eyes to close tight in pain. No. This wasn’t right. He didn’t like this. Why was Master letting them touch him? Wasn’t he his, and his alone?

“He’s a wonderful reward, My Lord.” A horrible voice says behind him. Rough hands grip his hips tightly. Another pair of strange hands touch him in places that no one was allowed to touch but his Master, and his eyes fly open with such rage that anyone would touch him there, his breath drawn to protest- 

But Master was sitting there, watching as they touched him. His expression was unreadable, but not disapproving.

The protest died in his throat as his heart clenches tight again. He produced a small whimper instead as fingers prodded him open.

And then he sobbed. Sobbed as someone not his Master lined up behind him and pushed, going deep inside him, but it wasn’t Master, it wasn’t right. It felt wrong, to have someone else inside. He wanted him out, wanted him gone. But Master was watching, didn’t stop them. Didn’t look to be upset or disapproving. And his Master had wanted this, he remembered. His Master had told him to let them do as they pleased, that he was their reward for something he couldn’t even remember.

He wished he had paid more attention then, to the words that had fallen from those perfect lips. That he had listened, instead of merely hearing and nuzzling his Master as if he were pleased.

He loved his Master, but a part of his heart felt cold as his Master looked on. Looked on as the man behind him pushed in deeper and deeper and deeper until he could feel strange hips pressed against him. Strange hands were holding his hips. Strange sounds were coming from behind him.

This wasn’t right. It wasn’t Master. Why wasn’t it Master?

He feels that strangeness inside of him press against the part of him that usually had him begging and whimpering for more from his Master. Now, all he does is jolt. And wonder why there was a dampness on his face, why he was having trouble seeing his Master.

He wanted to see his Master. Wanted to feel Master, not this stranger, and it made his heart feel cold and his body was feeling a strange numbness as his Master watched and let this other take him and it wasn’t Master and it wasn’t right but Master was watching and letting it happen and there was something wet on his face but he didn’t know what it was except that now his vision was blurry and he couldn’t see his Master the way he needed to.

And the man behind him kept moving, going faster and rougher. There was an ugly sound behind him, a strange one, as the man moved faster. And he lay there and took it because his Master had wanted him to. But it was wrong. It was wrong and awful and he wanted nothing more than for his Master to stop this and make the man go away.

He wanted Master to hold him and pet him and tell him that he had changed his mind, that he would punish the man for touching him, because he was his Master’s and his Master didn’t let anyone else touch him. 

Instead he got the harsh thrusts moving inside him and rough hands gripping his hips as the man took him and made him less perfect, less pure. Less Master’s and more… other.

So the damp on his face became worse as he cried, not liking that someone else was claiming him, that he was being taken by anyone but his master, and that his master was letting it happen.

“M-Master,” a shaky voice whimpered. “N-no-“ A sob breaks off whatever else he was going to say as the man struck him, pale flesh turning red. There was a snarl as his hair is yanked, and more tears poured from his eyes.

“Shut up and be a good whore.” A voice snarled into his ear. But he could barely hear it, because his ears were ringing and it was awful and he felt like a part of him wasn’t there anymore, like it had run off and left him, but also taken most of him along because suddenly he couldn’t feel the strangeness inside him.

His eyes closed, blackness swallowing everything as the rest of him was pulled along by that piece of him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning at end! (but if you read the tags then you should know what's going to happen)
> 
> Also, tense switch from past to present

The stains are a part of him. They're steeped deep into his skin, burrowed into his flesh, creeping through his veins. 

 

No matter what he does, he can't forget, can't deny, can't help but think of how filthy he is, now that he's been touched by someone who isn't his master. 

 

For the first time that he can remember, he feels shame. Ashamed and absolutely filthy. And no matter how hard he scrubs, the stains won't go away. Even when his skin is angry red and bleeding, it won't leave. 

 

He sobs, terrified at how he feels, how he wants nothing more than to be someone else, to disappear, to go back in time. It hurts, his chest feels tight and awful and he doesn't know how to make it better, and his nails digging into the skin above each beat does nothing to help. 

 

He aches, but it's a numb ache. A tired ache. 

His master visited him, once or twice. But Master didn't touch him. His master didn't always choose to touch him, to offer him the attention he so craves. But the rejection has stung more than ever now that he was so dirty. Filthy. His master hates filthy things, he knows.

 

People with filthy blood would be brought in and killed on a frequent basis, and before he had paid it no mind. It didn't matter to him, because he was pure, and dedicated to his master in every way. 

 

But now he isn't. And he's filthy and his master didn't touch him at all, had only looked at him.

 

He whines pitifully, a soft whimper of self-deprecation. 

 

\--

 

Potter's eyes had lost their spark, the playful glow that existed even when he was at his most subdued. It made him uncomfortable, this strange behavior coming from the one he had so thoroughly trained, knew so well. He couldn't stand to look at him for too long, when he knew that it was his fault. 

 

And then there was that, the knowledge that he had messed up, somewhere, somehow. And he didn't want to admit it. He hated that he was wrong. But looking at his pet… it was undeniable that he had failed. And now he didn't know what he could do to make it better.

 

\--

 

Master still hadn't touched him, and he knew no amount of begging would make him worthy once more of the touch he desperately needed. 

 

He felt listless, empty, dirty. His master would come in sometimes, but would never step in fully, never really see him, and he knew that it was because he was dirty. So dirty.

 

‘Dirty. Filthy. Worthless.’

 

‘Unloved, unwanted.’

 

‘Filth.’

 

The words run around in his head endlessly, filling his days whenever his mind isn't merely a blank void of numb.

 

It's with those words in his mind that he grips a shard of glass, taken from the broken vial that lay shattered by his feet. 

 

There's blood on the floor, his blood, weeping from the cuts in his feet and a part of him is glad, because he feels it, a sharp pain that pierces through the numb. But it's not enough, and still the words swirl in his mind.

 

He doesn't need a steadying breath when he takes the shard and presses the sharpest point to his skin.

 

The red bead that forms is a reward that grows as his movements lengthen, until the line isn't straight but jagged because of the sharp pain tearing through the haze. 

 

And when he's fallen into the growing pool, cold already seeping into his limbs, the door opens. He hears his master's voice, but it sounds far away. 

 

Still, the sound makes him smile. How great is it, that the last thing he hears is his beautiful master, the sound he had missed and yearned for.

 

And then the touch is his master's touch, the cool hands seeming oddly warm on his skin. 

 

“Master?”

 

He thinks he hears something, but it's far away. 

 

“Can't hear Master.”

 

There's something else, but it's as if he's going somewhere. The distance is only bigger. 

 

“...love Master… ‘m sorry”

 

And then there's a darkness that rises to consume him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suicide attempt! 
> 
> I did leave the death part mildly vague, though, so if you would like, you are free to think that Harry did not in fact die and that Voldemort/Tom got there in time to save him. Or you can think that he did die.


End file.
